Cornerstone
by Long Tongue Liar
Summary: Selina and Bruce have kept away from each other as much as possible after learning each other's identities. But one night when Selina finds herself in trouble, Batman swoops in to save her, more broken than she last saw him.
1. Chapter 1

A knife through flesh. Easiest thing in the goddamn world. I grew up in Gotham, believe me, I _know_. Never really thought much about what it felt like. It's startling rather painful. Like that instant someone touches you with cold fingers and you aren't expecting it. The sensation sucked the wind right out of me. My vision swayed and doubled. The son of a bitch with the knife had this shit-eating grin. His thug that held my arms behind me tightened his hold. My head rolled back against his shoulder. My eyes drifted up. Behind rose-colored goggles, Gotham's night sky look tinted with blood.

The knife was stuck a few inches to the right of my bellybutton and the red syrupy stuff poured hot from around the opening. A dark rivet of it ran down the length of my abdomen, slick across the material of my costume. I felt pain. White hot. Invasive. Like something I needed to scratch. The blade slid out smoothly and my knees weakened.

"Say your prayers, kitty," the mobster growled. His yellow teeth sneered.

My chin dipped to my chest and I stared at him vehemently before my tired eyes drooped. The shadows made my pointed cowl look long and ghoulish on the asphalt. He reached forward and grabbed my chin and made me look in his leathery face. His eyes were watery and crazed. Gotham tends to create evil. It makes you crave everything you can't have. Money, power, status, blood.

"What's that? Nothin' to say? What's the matter baby, cat got your tongue?"

He howled like it was the best damn joke he's ever told. Like I haven't heard that line a thousand times. He grabbed my shoulder for leverage and jammed the blade in again, this time just above my left hip. My body writhed in agony. Muscles tightened against the hands holding me back. Another blade drove through my back. Blood surged from my lungs and wet my mouth. Both blades retracted. My head dropped and I watched the ground. Blood dripped like rubies onto the shadows. The hands that held me up released me. I dropped to my knees. Gravity rocked. I clutched at my stomach and felt hot wetness run between my gloved fingers. I attempted a breath that sounded like someone was sucking a milkshake through a straw.

And I thought for a moment, maybe it was the end. My life hasn't been remarkable enough to mourn. I wasn't sad. I'm wasn't scared. Pretty damn complacent, actually. I gave him his shit-eating grin right back with teeth covered in blood. My eyes rolled back. Dying. Easiest thing in the goddamn world.

Something cracked overhead. The two men looked up. One of them screamed. A shadow plummeted from the rooftop and landed in an animalistic crouch before me. A panicked gunshot exploded from the mobster. It ricocheted off a dark emblem and flashed in the dark for an instant. A dark cape swirled. Bones cracked. Blood splashed against the bricks. I wavered on my knees in the midst of it all with a name in my head.

_Bruce_.

It was done in seconds. A pitiful moan fluttered out of one of the men. He laid sprawled out on the asphalt with his arm bent the wrong direction. A dark breeze billowed around me and a shadow painted me in black. A dark cape unfurled and touched at my shoulders. I fell forward into dark clad arms that tucked me against a hard torso and lifted me from the ground. And then what little light Gotham had to offer faded and left me in darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

The morning sun didn't wake me. I dreamt straight through it. I sifted through memories. Pictures. Sensations. Bright colors. They blended together in a fast moving current that drowned me until with a gasp, I bolted upright in bed at exactly three in the afternoon. I panted hard and looked around, trying to determine my surroundings. Silk sheets. A canopy over the bed. Dark curtains drawn over the windows. A blue silk bathrobe hanging over the bedpost.

Intense pain made the memories rush back. I gritted my teeth and lowered myself back into the pillows under me. I forced my body to relax and let the agony out in one tight breath. Bandages wove around my middle. A wave of vertigo crashed over me and I closed my eyes, swallowed hard and tried to organize my patchwork memories.

The night had called to me. The sky looked littered with jewels, all twinkling and calling my name. Tempting me. Gave me a greedy, lusty fuel that powered my lean legs over rooftops and fire escapes. My chest flexed and heaved with breath that gleamed with tight leather that looked painted onto my skin. I shimmered in the night, a whip circled at my hip. The wind pushed at me as I crouched at the end of an outcrop. My eyes followed the skyline. Gotham glittered, the night sky shimmered on the glass windows of the skyscrapers.

Gotham had always been kind to me. It was a tough love growing up of course, but the city never made it easy on anyone. I liked to think I resided in some special place of the city's heart -it piled jewels in my hands, gave me conquests and adventure that only a cat's curiosity could yearn for. And the city was so corrupt that my escapades got me more and more every night I went out. The heists bigger, the people richer and the crime rate steep enough so I could slip under the radar more often than not. It was the perfect marriage. The anti-heroine and a city dark enough to let her slip right in between its grimy little cracks. I'd never had so much fun.

Of course, I would never be the kind of criminal that Gotham liked to nurture. I'm no Joker, no Ivy –I'll never be malicious nor bloodthirsty. Just mischievous. Like a kitten playing with something she shouldn't. Evil isn't in my nature. But that night, I was in no mood to be a good citizen. Perched on the rooftop of a prestigious hotel, I could almost smell the diamonds underneath my feet. Only the richest of the rich spent their time there. Riddled with mobsters who crawled up the ladder with dirty fingers. And the next night in the marble clad ballroom they'd have their jewel expo. An annual event, apparently. How I'd never heard of it before made me doubt my own instinct. But I'd heard of it now, at least, and planned to sneak in the highest donator's room and rob them blind.

Black gloved hands gripped the edge of the roof and in one swift movement, with the grace of a seasoned acrobat, I flipped myself over. I plummeted a story before hooking my hands on the stone work and swinging up onto the balcony of the suite. I stood there for a moment, looking at the glass sliding doors. The curtains were drawn but I could smell the wealth leaking out. I reveled in it for a moment, let myself be disgusted and jealous and excited, and then wasted no more time. The claw on my index finger worked the lock of the door and it clicked. With ease it slid open and I stepped in to the quiet room with the grace of a butterfly. My body fit inside and the curtains billowed gently at my ankles. My eyes adjusted to the new darkness.

_Now, if I were a high security safe, where would I be?_ I tip toed with soft elegance into the adjoining living room. And there it all was. The jackpot. A feline smile curled my lips and I went to the first case. It was all spread out -numerous safes, glass cases and suitcases. The rubies in the case called to me first. With a clawed hand I sliced a perfect circle in the case and slid it onto the carpet. My hand reached in and piled the scarlet jems in my palm. With methodical motions I spilled the various gems and necklaces into a small purse clutched at my side. I moved to the suitcases next. Less exciting, but shiny and wonderful all the same. The shine of them passed over my goggles. I imagined my eyes lit up like fire.

The biggest safe I saved for last. The prize was in there, I could feel it with every bone in me. My bag grew heavy at my side but I still had room for whatever beauty made its home in there. I met an obstacle within seconds though -it was not merely a lock to crack, it was a thumbprint recognition tool. Just how rich _were _these people? The mob was in pretty deep in Gotham but this deep? It boggled my mind. I tried a trick I'd seen in a movie, I bent down and cupped my hands around the pad and blew hot air onto it. To no avail. The safe stayed silent. Desperate and short on time, I took a claw to the security system. I cut down along a few buttons to the side of the pad and nearly jumped out of my skin at the alarm that went off next.

I jumped to my feet and started at a sprint for the balcony window. The alarm grew louder until I was sure everyone in the streets below could hear it. Someone in the bed cried out and threw the covers off but I was out the glass doors before I could identify them. Or more importantly, before they could identify me. Or so I thought. Clutching the bag close to me, I scaled the rooftop once more. Sirens roared a few blocks down. I flipped back over the outcrop and ran across the cement. My whip smacked out from my side and aided me as I swung from one rooftop to the next. My breath felt like fire in my lungs but I smiled as I ran. And a wicked bout of laughter emptied from my throat and swirled around me in the night.

But I got cocky. I didn't run for long enough. I don't deal with the mob often and wasn't aware that it's virtually impossible to outrun the it. Especially in Gotham. I hit the streets a few minutes after flying between rooftops and they cornered me.

I left myself weak on my right side for just a second during the scuffle and got a blow to the side of my head that destroyed any chances I had of winning. Blow after blow, I ended up face first on the ground wheezing like a fat chick in heels until they grabbed me by the scruff of my costume and tugged my arms behind me. The rest was blurry, but clear enough to let me figure out where I was.

Wayne Manor. I should have known the second my legs hit the silk sheets. The whole place smelled of old money and tragedy and yet had an aching familiarity that made me feel safer than I'd felt in months. Bracing myself for the pain, I sat up again. I swung my legs with delicate ease off the bed and stood. My legs wobbled but I hung onto the bed post and took a deep breath. The pain tightened me into stone.

"_Christ_."

My breath felt dry and hollow in my mouth. I gritted my teeth and pushed myself forward. One foot in front of the other. I felt as though the knives were still there, driving and twisting into my stomach, into my back. I moved my arms as slow as though I were wading through mud and retrieved the bathrobe undoubtedly left out for me. It was smooth and cool to the touch. It slid like water over my skin and I wrapped it gently around me. Steps came easier; I breathed through them and made it to the door. It opened with an expensive creak and I stepped into the hallway. It was dark and silent. As most of the manor was. Bruce hardly used any of it. He spent his time in the cave more often than not. Alfred was the only one who knew it like the back of his hand –I don't even think Bruce had been in some rooms. The whole place was a sharp reminder for him. I don't blame him for shying away from it.

I knew my way around fairly well. I was in the guest wing, I knew that much. The carpet was soft under my bare feet. I wrapped my arms around myself and tried to listen for any movement anywhere close. I wanted to see Alfred's warm face more than anything in the world. It had been months. An unsettling feeling rolled in my stomach as past memories rolled around under my feet and bit at my ankles.

I passed a mirror and took a wary glance. I'd cut my hair short a while back –there wasn't all that much damage that could be done to it. But my face was pale and sallow. My eyes looked like holes of jade fire in the sunken caverns. A nasty bruise colored my chin purple and a gash was stitched up along my hairline. No doubt Alfred's handiwork. It was more clean and precise than Bruce's half-cocked jobs he always ripped himself up on. I imagined the bandages and the lack of internal bleeding was the ex-intelligence agent's doing as well.

I walked farther, the manor seemed to get darker the deeper I went. My breath felt like rocks rattling around in my lungs and my entire torso felt like it was on fire. But I pressed on. I wanted to find him. I needed to see him. The name kept repeating in my head just as it had the night before.

_Bruce, Bruce…Bruce_.

I trudged on towards the den. A drop of cold sweat painted down my spine. My legs felt shaky but I kept on until I reached the old grandfather clock. I pulled it back with as much strength as I could muster and stepped into the cold darkness. I closed it behind me and heard nothing but the leathery flapping of wings and the chatter of hundreds of bats waiting overhead. The cave was always cold. Goosebumps rose along my bare thighs where the robe didn't reach. I took the stairs carefully, cold stone under my skin, and let my eyes adjust. A bat flew in front of me with a screech.

The main floor opened up in front of me. I'd been down there so many times but the vastness of it never ceased to amaze me. It looked like it stretched on for miles. With every knick knack and unmentionable, questionable item one could think of. And then some. I worked through the maze, unsteady and bare legged. But finally, I found him.

He sat at the main computer, still in costume. His cowl was pulled off and all I could see was the back of his head, his rich dark hair. He had his head bent and his fingers rubbing at his forehead. His heavy shoulders sagged. He looked broken and soft, more vulnerable than he would have allowed anyone to ever see him. Even me. But then again, so was I. So I spoke. Soft and cautious, I held onto a table for support and whispered, "Bruce."


	3. Chapter 3

He turned in the chair. Batman was never surprised, and neither was Bruce Wayne. His eyes passed over me as if they had been expecting my image all along and he stared with a measured glance. It was then I got a good look at his face. His skin was inhuman. Hard, without luster, white as bone. His eyes were sunken back and outlined with dark circles that looked like bruises. Maybe they were bruises. He looked like he hadn't slept for days, or weeks, maybe months. Maybe years. Looking at him, I thought for a moment that perhaps he hadn't slept a night in his life. I'd spent a few nights in his bed and every time I rolled over and opened my eyes he was awake. Either sitting up, or standing at the window. I imagine his nightmares haunted him. Guns and spilled pearls in the alleyway.

He looked sick. Dead. Skeletal despite the steel bands of muscle wrapped around his heavy arms and shoulders. I gripped onto the edge of the table with white knuckles and cleared my throat.

"You look like shit."

He rose from his chair, "Selina."

The way he said my name made me ache. My chest tightened and the pain I'd momentarily forgotten about returned. I grimaced (hard as I tried to contain it) and he strode forward. His cape billowed around him like armor that had since been peeled away. A few months ago I was convinced I had the key to that armor. And then it turned to sand and slipped between my greedy little fingers. His voice echoed in my head. _We're each other's greatest weakness_.

He crossed the distance between us with a few long strides. Up close, the wear and tear of his face was even more apparent. He looked like he'd aged fifty years since the last time I saw him unmasked. His blue eyes burned like dying, and yet resilient fire.

"You shouldn't be moving around," he said. His voice was a deep growl. Firm and familiar.

"How long has it been since you've slept?" I found myself asking. His dark hair was mussed about his head. I had to refrain from reaching up and running my fingers through it.

"_Selina,_" he spoke my name again and this time the aching familiarity of it on his lips made my knees sway. I clenched with a short intake of air and gripped onto the table but he was quicker. In a blink of an eye he had me around the waist, supporting me with featherlike pressure. It always amazed me how gentle he could be despite his hulking size.

He led me over to his chair and lowered me into it. I caught my breath and winced trying to sit up a little further.

"What made you think messing around with the mob was a good idea?" he asked.

"How else was I supposed to get you to pay attention to me?"

It was a fabrication of course, and he knew it. I wouldn't have taken a knife in the gut just to get Bruce to talk to me again. The stab wounds were my own greedy stupidity. But I couldn't deny the perks of the situation. Here. Him. Under his gaze. Feeling his warmth. Just hearing his _voice_ –it was strange how much I'd missed it. But I kept my eyes wry and chin stubborn.

"A phone call would have sufficed," he played the game right back and leaned against the massive counter of the mainframe. He folded his massive arms over his emblem. The corner of it peeked at me and glinted mockingly in the light. Told me everything I couldn't have and why.

"You wouldn't have picked up."

He made no reply. I felt his eyes on my face like it was being set on fire. We stared at each other for a long, silent moment.

"We've talked about this," he finally murmured.

And we had. The night never left my memory. One part of me knew it was all true. We couldn't do…_this_. Gotham was too blood thirsty for us to survive. Bruce had his demons, I had mine, and we'd never get far enough away from them. We _were_ each other's greatest weakness. And yet, the other half of me denied it all. Someway, somehow, we could work it out. Keep our identities hidden, keep our enemies at bay, let love conquer all. Bitter, tainted, insatiable love, but love all the same.

But Bruce was always more levelheaded than I. He could keep his emotions in a box way the hell away inside his head. Mine wouldn't leave me alone. His stony face remained vigilant and expressionless. And I _hated_ it. I kept my mouth shut for fear of what would spill out.

"Alfred will drive you home when you're healed up. In the mean time your welcome to the guest room and anything else you may need," he dismissed me subtly and with emotionless authority.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to claw his eyes out. I wanted to do a million things but I held back. I merely rose from the chair and wrenched my arm away from his steadying hand. I didn't need his pity anymore or his all-knowing glances. I swallowed a lump in my throat and stormed out as fast as my weak body would take me without another word to him.

After I escaped from the cave I ran into Alfred in the hallway.

"Ms. Kyle?"

I fell into him and he wrapped me into a gentle embrace. I pressed my face into his warm neck and held on for dear life. He rubbed my back in slow circles and before I knew it he was shushing me gently and telling me everything would be all right in my ear. Hot tears had slipped past my defenses and spilled against the crisp collar of his shirt. I became small and childish against him and for a moment remembered what being loved felt like.


	4. Chapter 4

A month passed. In the winter, crime in Gotham fluctuated. The rapists and murders found it too cold to go outside and stayed indoors more often than not. The lot of them holed up inside where it was warm and let their ideas fester. The cops all got nervous when the calendar hit November. The city quieted but there was always something unspoken and poisonous brewing under the frozen streets. The schemers were always the ones who prevailed in the winter months.

Unfortunately, I've never been a schemer. I am a thief first and foremost and moronically undeterred by ice slick rooftops and snowy windows. And with the lack of the big dogs out to play during the colder season, there was a lot more scrutiny put on me and my escapades. Law abiding citizens in Gotham were just as restless as the enforcers when the city was quiet. Like they all needed something to chase after and fear. I made the mistake of hitting a jewelry plaza as winter descended and barely made it out a free woman.

Needless to say, it was safest to lay low like the rest of Gotham's scum as the Christmas lights appeared on the street lamps and they lit the giant tree in the square. It drove me crazy. There was so much loot being passed around during the holidays and it was all right under my nose. But I valued my freedom more than I valued a string of pearls in those months. A rare occurrence, but a necessary change in mindset. At least temporarily.

I found other places to apply myself. Namely, charity events. Gotham, though full of red bloody streets and bullet shells worked into the asphalt, was nothing if not a giant display of generosity around the holidays. There was a fancy gala promoting orphaned children one week, another promoting the cancer foundation the next, and one for the hungry and homeless soon after. Gotham's elite could never get enough of their fancy parties. The holidays just provided them with an excuse to throw as many as they could. Half the rich stiffs in the city were drunk from December 1st to January 2nd, I'd bet all their thick wads of cash on it.

Not that I had any room to complain. I'd built my reinvented sense of self around those very people and they were gracious enough to put me on the guest list for almost every event. The first was arguably the most prestigious.

The annual Christmas ball, held on December 10th of every year, was the biggest of the big. Anyone who was anyone came to donate for various causes, drink champagne and dazzle under the yuletide decorations. The event was so big it was almost more anticipated than Christmas itself. I spared no expense for the occasion. I'd been cooped up in my apartment for almost a month and the Christmas ball came like the sweet respite of morning through the bleak, endless night.

The mirror in my apartment spit back my reflection harshly. I hadn't quite recovered all the way from my run in with the mob. And my run in with Bruce, for that matter. The stains were still evident. The thin set of my face, the dark pools of my eyes, the too-defined lines of my collar bones and the white hollow of my throat. My hair was almost too black and too long for my tastes. It grazed the tops of my ears. I'd messed with it for a good hour before I was satisfied. Short hair was supposed to be _easier_ than long hair. Certainly easier to fit under a cowl.

The dress I'd picked out was fairly provocative for a charity event. Black, simple enough. With a plunging back and a high neckline. A slit up the side. Sheer and dark –the black fabric made my skin look more translucent. You'd think I spent enough time in the color to be sick of it, but it comforted me away. Like the shadows were old friends. I used to think that whenever I saw Batman under the moonlight. The shadows kept to him along the strong shape of his jaw, the vulnerable dent of his mouth like they were protecting him from something. He'd studied them for so long they surrounded him. Worshiped him. The thought made my stomach tie in knots. I could still feel the newly forming scars in my abdomen –they burned with his image. As if they were connected to him. Like _I _was connected to him.

The old wounds bothered me all night. From the moment I walked in the doors and picked up my first glass of champagne. I picked up a second hoping eventually the alcohol would dull my nerves. But the pain was not tangible. I knew its source. It was a ghost of feeling, the absence of something rather than the intrusion of it. The absence of him. _Bruce_ His name came to me as I made my rounds through rich, red cheeked women and cigar puffing men. I wouldn't have been fit to lick the floors those people walked on in my old life. I first saw him in a crowd. It was just a brief glimpse. A flash of his striking face in a sea of the mundane. He was laughing. But I knew him well enough to know it was just a show. A forced note in his lungs, meticulous pulling of the right muscles in his face. Nevertheless it disarmed me, as he so often did. The brief image made my knees weak. I tried to ignore it. The champagne started to taste bitter.

The next time I caught a glimpse, we exchanged a glance. But to say exchanged implies we had something to give one another. Neither of us had anything left. I tried to smile for him, invite him over wordlessly. He provided nothing but a look that scolded me for trying to draw him in. _We are each other's greatest weakness. _He dissolved back into the crowd. _We've talked about this_.

My body withered under the golden Christmas lights. They melted gold all around me and I crumbled in on myself. I ended up in a chair at one of the tables along the wall with one leg crossed over the other, listening to the band play Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas with a bitter, tormented aura around me. I hadn't prepared myself for how hard his image would hit me. I thought a month would have been enough time to reconcile with myself. To forgive myself for the weakness I displayed at the top of the stairs of his cave in the arms of the last man he considered family.

It wasn't. And sitting there, I'd convinced myself there would never be enough time to reconcile the hurt. I'd loved Bruce Wayne for everything he was and everything he wasn't. For what he could and could not be. But he was always deluded in his displaced self-righteousness –too careful to care for me. Too wary to get too close to anyone but his city. His goddamn mangled city.

The song switched and I rose from my seat just as some poor sucker was about to make his way over to me. I touched his shoulder in parting but didn't stop walking to pay him any attention.

"Merry Christmas," I murmured in passing. It was a cynical, dark comment though I hadn't meant it to be.

I kept walking. If I hadn't been wearing three-inch heels I think I would have started running. I broke free from the doors and started down a random hallway. Part of me was trying to find a bathroom, the other part of me was hoping I'd get lost and no one would ever find me. My heels clicked down a long stairwell and through another set of double doors.

I made it down one more hallway before I found him. Bent over at the end of the walkway with his arm around his middle. From his profile I could see his jaw clenched in pain. A diamond bead of sweat on his temple.

"Bruce?" It was sick how quickly I abandoned all my hurt for him.

But my feet moved of their own accord and I rushed to him, falling to my knees at his side and letting my hands move over his shoulders. Under my palms I felt his familiar arcs and bows, the hard shapes of his muscles and grooves of his scars. He looked at me with a drawn expression and turned. I saw his hand clutching at his side and from under his suit jacket, the startling color of red.

"Jesus," I hissed, "What happened to you?"

He let me help him to his feet. His heavy arm draped across my shoulder and for half a second I remembered what being cradled to his side felt like. I remembered the dark nights awake in his bed not speaking but communicating through other means –soft touches, shadowed looks. Those _shadows_. They filled the bed and welcomed me into their embraces. Back when I was a part of him. Now they rushed away from me to aid him. They blurred his sharp face and left mine to be naked under the moonlight spilling from the window.

"It's nothing," he said, but his tight voice betrayed him, "An old wound opened up."

I searched his face. He stared right through me but it didn't matter. I reveled in his gaze. I pretended it was a look full of things we'd once had together.

"Let me take you to the hospital," I whispered.

He shook his head.

"To Alfred," I beseeched him.

He nodded curtly, with some reluctance, and lowered his eyes. I felt shed of all my clothes as he ripped his gaze away, like he'd taken something from me. But I held him up anyway. I felt his tired bones and his tired eyes as we stumbled together down another flight of stairs. His blood rubbed against my dark dress and dissolved right into the blackness. I got him out the back entrance and to my car. I started the engine of my car and thought about old wounds and weakness as Gotham's skyline passed over the roof and the only man I'd ever loved wilted in the seat beside me.


	5. Chapter 5

Alfred was always a whiz at stitches. I watched him work hoping by looking over his shoulder I'd pick up a few pointers of my own. God knows I've done just as many half-assed jobs piecing myself together as Bruce has. His hands moved too quick for me to follow. So when I lost interest in trying I looked at Bruce instead.

I shied from how dark he looked. He was sunk over in the chair. Face ghoulish and dim in the lowlight. He cast his eyes on the floor and didn't flinch as Alfred's fingers went red with blood working on his side. It was as if he didn't even feel it anymore. Gotham had dealt him such darker blows in his time that flesh wounds ceased to faze him. I wondered if he could feel wounds of the heart anymore - or if that was also a thing of the past.

Alfred finished in minutes. He nodded to me in passing and collected his first aid supplies on a platter. His footsteps echoed up the long stairwell and he left Bruce and I in peace. I felt naked in my dress. I'd always felt more comfortable around him in costume. He tasted like metal when I kissed him with his cowl. Our reinvented selves fit together perfectly. When we were without masks we were entirely too human for each other. It was beautiful and hot and wild and _sweet_, but it was never comfortable. We both had to let down our armor and hated it. But the rewards had been worth it. Once upon a time.

"Thank you," Bruce suddenly spoke. His voice spun gravel. It was hollow and faint, almost like I was hearing him through glass.

"I know I've said it before but I'll say it again," I shoved off the counter and stood in front of his reclined figure, "You look like shit."

He didn't say anything. His gunmetal eyes lowered to the floor. Overcome with the need for his familiarity, I crossed the distance between us and lowered myself against him. I felt his body tighten in response but he didn't shove me away. And I took that as an invitation. I kissed the corner of his mouth and then his vulnerable lips. He tasted soft and destroyed. His hand trailed up my side. My ribs quivered in response to him. But his palm stopped at my waist and he used it as leverage to push me back. It was a gentle movement, but his intention was clear.

"Selina," he sighed my name.

I hung close to him, my cheek against his.

"We can't do this," he whispered in my ear.

"Who says?"

I kissed him again and he didn't resist. I felt his weakness trying to break through his chest. It just wanted to be acknowledged. Bruce had neglected it for so long. I tended to bring it out him.

"Everything says," he whispered when we parted to take a breath.

His other hand came up to cup my waist but he didn't use it to shove me off. He drew me closer. I could feel the heat of his skin. Old desires. One hand left my waist to run up the slit of my dress. His warm palm smoothed over my skin.

"Please," I breathed into him. I hated how pathetic it sounded.

He kissed me in response. I felt the bones of his face and his thick hair through my fingers. I was wary of his injury. This was hardly the first time we'd gotten intimate and had to be mindful of injuries. Sometimes it was him, sometimes it was me –more often it was both of us. It felt good to be in pain together back then.

Currently? It was just unnerving. Our pain went much deeper. I drew back from him for just a moment to try and find emotion on his face. There was nothing readable unless one looked deep into his eyes. Which I always had a habit of doing. And there it was –the gem, the rarity, the _pain_. It mirrored my own. The pain of a lover who wasn't allowed to love.

"Just tonight," I murmured.

It wouldn't satiate either of us for long, but I thought if I gave him a way out he'd agree to it. And he did. For I think he needed me as badly as I needed him.

"Not here," he whispered. Always such a gentleman.

It was an unnecessary act of chivalry, for we'd made love in far darker places. But he insisted. He let me help him out of the chair and the two of us slowly ascended from the depths of his sanctuary to the façade of his home. He led me to his bedroom, or at least the one he pretended to sleep in the nights where the city was quiet enough to let him, and we did a tango glide to his bed. He removed my dress like he was unveiling a work of art. I pulled his shirt from his shoulders, half-afraid I'd break him. We made love with all the lost tenderness in the city and remembered each other. It was hard to remember why we'd decided to call it off in the throes of passion but once our breath quieted and sheets settled we were reminded. The silence scolded us.

Frankly, I didn't give a damn. Screw everything that told us we couldn't. We _did_. And it was amazing. Nothing bad happened. No one got hurt. But I knew he resisted it. Regretted it. He didn't leave my side and held me but I could feel him a million miles away. I didn't care. We were together. And I could pretend that the heartbeat I heard under my ear beat only for me, and that the city outside didn't matter, and that the man beside me wasn't so dark that he was swallowing himself up. Snow started to fall outside the window. It settled quiet over Gotham. I lay awake staring at it and knew he was awake watching too.


End file.
